Truth
by NairobiWonders
Summary: Set a month or so after the date of the first episode of season three, so mild, very mild spoilers. Sherlock and Joan open up to each other about their time apart. A bit of angst, platonic joanlock. This very, very loosely ties in to my previous story "Brooklyn/London." Please let me know if you spot typos as this was written quickly on the spur of the moment


Silent, cross-armed, mirroring each other's stance, Joan and Sherlock stared at the wall of Joan's apartment. Autopsy photos, receipts, maps, a menu from a Thai restaurant, police reports, stickies with arrows, red string and images of a cuneiform inscribed tablet held their attention.

Joan turned to Sherlock, "Why is there a menu from Thai Palace on the wall?"

"I was hungry. Put it up for future reference."

It was late and she was getting hungry as well. "You know they're closed by now."

"Yeah."

"I've got eggs if you want to make something." He grunted an answer and they went back to staring at the wall.

More and more cases were investigated by them in tandem. Joan and Sherlock worked better together. Gregson knew it and they knew it. But they were no where near ready to acknowledge it. The problems of the past nine months were still wedged tightly between them.

Joan kept her anger and hurt to herself for the most part. Only on occasion would a comment slip out with such bitterness that it made Sherlock cringe and hate himself all the more. He had just now begun to understand the depth of pain he'd caused her. It never occurred to him that she would be truly hurt. Angry, yes. But hurt implied a level of feeling that he had convinced himself she did not have for him. Sherlock, when he left for London, was of the opinion that he was just a means to an end for her.

Moments like these, when they worked as they had in the past, made him uneasy. While he relished every second he spent in her presence, engaged in the work, it only underscored to him what a loathsome creature he was. He had to tell her the truth. The truth will set you free they say, but in this case he was afraid it would mean losing her all over again, perhaps for good this time. A sigh escaped him.

"What is wrong?" Joan asked impatiently. "You've been brooding all evening. You're not even paying attention." She went up to the wall and disgustedly took down the menu he'd placed up there and tried handing it to him.

He stared blankly at her. "Sherlock?" Joan was confused by his lack of reaction.

This was it. He had to tell her no matter what the consequences. Sherlock took a small step towards her, suddenly panicked and froze. Joan not knowing what to do, stood her ground but sensing his discomfort, she softened her stance; her eyes never left his face.

Heart-racing fear set in. Sherlock summoned all his courage, lowered his head slightly, squeezed his eyes shut and quickly reopened them, and with a shaky breath, whispered, "I lied to you."

"Yeah, well, what else is new," she pivoted away from him to place the menu on the table. Joan raised up all her walls and shields; her defense system was in place. Sherlock would not hurt her again.

"Joan."

She felt her stomach drop. His use of her name and his quiet, pained tone scared her. She closed her eyes and took a breath, set her face to neutral and turned to face him.

"I uhm ... I ..." His eyes were wide with fear and focused solely on her. "I relapsed in London, a few months after arriving..." He started rushing through his words, not waiting for her reaction. If he stopped, he would lose the little courage he had. "I took the heroin I had stashed at the brownstone with me when I left. In a moment of weakness and self pity, I ... I succumbed."

Her face registered nothing. No expression.

He barreled on, "I was in a rather bad place. I blamed you and ... and ..." his voice got weaker, "and missed you ... very much ... I was worried, I couldn't protect you and ..." He nodded his head but could no longer look at her, his eyes shifted to the floor. "It was an excuse of course. While the loss of our ... of you ... uh, I felt a failure ..." He shut his eyes and swallowed, "I'm an addict, I know that. ... " Sherlock took a breath. "I always think I'm stronger than I am, huh ... I woke up in an alley, soiled, robbed and utterly disgusted with myself, scared out of my wits, just wishing I had had enough to overdose ... I called Alfredo as soon as I was able ... I'm very fortunate to have him ... He helped me back up, found me help in London. I made him swear not to tell you." Sherlock hazarded a look in her direction. She stood frozen, exactly the same as when he started talking. He quickly looked back down, hating himself all over again. "It, it was only the one time, I swear." He stammered. "I've maintained sobriety ever since. But the one time was enough to have the MI6 lose faith in me ... Can't say I blame them. ... I seem to have a knack for letting people down ..." His voice trailed off to nothing.

Without a word, she turned away from him, focusing once more on the wall. She placed a hand on the table beside her, grounding herself. Her eyes closed. Joan squeezed back tears she did not want him to see.

From behind her, she heard him whisper, "I'm sorry."

"How did we get here Sherlock? What happened?" Her voice was small, her words faint. "After everything we went through ... You couldn't even reach out to me when you feared falling?" She took a breath, "How little do you think of me?" Sherlock stood behind her, chastised, immobile, head bent.

Joan turned partially towards him, not able to look at him directly, "I had these, ... these nightmares, you know, while you were gone. ... Horrible, horrible nightmares. I'd wake up screaming your name. You were dead or dying, overdosing in some filthy alley ... and I couldn't reach you ... try as I might, I couldn't reach you ..." Her voice faded and they were left standing, not looking at each other, in silence for a few moments.

"Why didn't you tell me? Why lie?" Joan was hurt, try as she might, he had hurt her again.

"I tried to tell you what happened but ... I saw how well you did without me, how little effect the ending of our partnership had on you ... You thrived. My pride didn't, and still doesn't, want your pity ... So I overcompensated, said stupid things I didn't mean, about replacing you... I just ...You did so well without me ... I couldn't admit I failed."

"How well I did?" Joan's voice raised. "How well I did!" She moved towards him, pinning him to the spot with her stare. "Yeah, it was a bed of roses for me. I was kidnapped, my life threatened, your brother leaves me, and you disappear with a five sentence note of good-bye. You left me jobless and alone ... with no one ... worried sick ..." A sob escaped her lips and she stopped to compose herself. "I ended up in therapy. Dr. Reed is the only reason I survived ... " Tears of rage and grief rolled down her cheeks and she let them fall. She was no longer ashamed of them. Each one carried his name on it and he needed to see what he had done.

Sherlock stood before her, blinking as he tried to keep his own tears from spilling, not knowing what to say or how to comfort her, afraid of doing or saying the wrong thing and once more causing pain.

But from somewhere deep inside him, the courage came; instinctively, he moved towards her, slowly for fear of rebuff. His hand reached for hers and she let him take it. Sherlock carefully placed his arm around her shoulder, again waiting for her to push him away. Instead Joan's forehead dropped onto his chest as the tears continued to flow. His other arm wrapped around her and they held on.

"I hate you..." Her voice was muffled by his chest.

"I understand," he spoke into her hair, "I hate me, too."

Anger resurfaced in her at his perceived flippancy, she gripped the front of his shirt, and looked up at him, "I could have lost you forever, you asshole! What were you thinking? Didn't it occur to you to call, to talk to me... I was your sober companion. I thought we were friends."

Sherlock looked down at her, eyes wide and shining with tears, "That's why I didn't, I knew how disappointed you'd be, how ashamed I was to tell you. I thought about how lucky Alistair was to have all this be over."

Joan slammed her palm onto his chest, "Don't you ever ..." She brought her hand to her face and wiped the tears away. Her voice was suddenly strong and in control. "I'm calling Dr. Reed tomorrow morning and scheduling sessions for both of us, do you understand?"

He nodded, putting up no resistance to her taking charge. He lowered his head, to the top of hers once again.

They stood together, holding on to each other, lightly rocking back and forth, until a sense of peace descended upon them.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm mmm?"

"I'm hungry."

He smiled into her hair, "How would you like your eggs?"

"Scrambled, please. I'll make tea."

They separated and made their way into her kitchen.


End file.
